


5 trips to the mound.

by mikeginsanity (blahblahwahwah)



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Friendship/Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 20:16:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8223502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blahblahwahwah/pseuds/mikeginsanity
Summary: What the title says. As I see them in my head - based off 1x02.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I wasn't gonna do anything until I saw the promos for 1x03 and this came out.  
> This show is so good, I can't keep waiting for Thursdays. It drives me insane.  
> Also - please excuse typos.

-1-

There are days when Ginny, goes out from all out doe-eyed, deer caught in the headlights, girly rookie with a point to prove...to a mad heartless Autobot who doesn’t give a fuck.

It freaks the hell out all of them when she does that. It’s like she’s on complete emotional shutdown and goes into like some weird attack mode. She throws herself into practice. She won’t talk to anyone. She becomes eerily quiet, staring off into space. She’s passively defiant.

Mike is always torn about how he feels about those days. 

Sometime, he’s all something-akin-to-love about those days because those  - Mike realizes, as he watches the replays - are the days that Ginny’s fastballs are perfect. If they’re at a game she’s channelling that mad robot energy into it.  Her fast balls go well over 90, and there was this _one_ time, one came at a hundred plus...and he knew it because the bones of his hand _felt_ it right there.

But, he hates those days as well. Because - those beautiful deliveries come at a high price.

A whole of lot her pitches run wild. And, it’s not just that he has to scamper after them – nooo! No sir! It’s that more often than _he_ gets hit by those balls in places he doesn’t appreciate. Like his shoulder, or his side or his knee – one just barely misses his crotch. _Those_ aren’t days for polite conversations.

If he’s lucky, he may get a mechanical apology out of her, but most of the time she barely acknowledges his directions, she doesn’t even bother arguing, which freaks him out all the more. He likes the banter – because a) it keeps him young and b) at least he knows what’s on her mind and c) he can convince her to follow his lead.

The worst thing is, she’ll nod obediently and then proceeds to do exactly whatever the fuck she wants. And Mike actually has to yell at her _a lot_.

(He hates yelling on the field. He scowls, glares – he loves to goad - but he fuckin’ hates yelling. There’s just that consciousness – all those cameras on them like microscopes, the eyes of a million in the crowd, every reporter or analyst under the sun psychoanalyzing their behaviour in the after – and then youtube happens, and it becomes paramount for them to stay cool.)

He thinks he’s being real damn fucking patient as he stalks towards her while he grits his teeth and barks a warning. “Okay – you’re gonna make me yell.”

“I’m sorry, Mike.” She mumbles, completely unfazed, completely uninterested. Her eyes are glued to the ball he has in his hand and they literally the follow ball around in his hand. He feels like he’s holding a biscuit for a puppy. (That creeps him out too. It’s like they’re not in a baseball field in front of a zillion people who are as loud as an earthquake. It’s like there’s no batter, or fielders or catcher for her. There’s just the ball.)

“You’re a good egg, Baker.” He says nodding, chewing gum, angrily. “And what do I tell you about good eggs?”

“You hate yelling at good eggs…” She drolls the words monotonously.

“That’s right!” He interjects and chimes with her. “I fuckin’ hate yelling at good eggs.”

He chews his gum, nodding his head up and down with his jaw movements, waiting for her to acknowledge. She nods but doesn't meet his eyes and catches the ball as he tosses it.

He hopes to leave it at that, but no she won’t let him.

The second time he goes right up to her face and gestures a line, making an imaginary box for her to direct her gaze in the strike zone. There’s just gestures and nods between them, no words, no grunts, nothing but the sound of him chewing gum.

He hopes to leave it at that, but – nope – nope – she won’t let him. 

In what he hopes to be the last of her wild pitch madness and the very next throw is a superfluously fast ball that develops a magical life of its own mid-air and veers way – way off, and somehow his face is in path. It rebounds violently off his mask, his whole head rattles from the force of it.

It’s a hell of a sound, the collective gasp of shocked thousands. One of the highlights of his career.

Mike’s so angry he feels like there’s raging fire-frickin’-ants crawling out of his skin. He’s up on his feet, and barely makes a gesture for a timeout before he ups and storms his way towards her. His whole face is still echoing from the onslaught and he’s so furious he doesn’t bother that there are a million eyes on him, or that’s he’s in high definition plainsight, when slaps his mitt on the ground and yanks his mask off

“You know, this _thing!”_ He bellows, spitting the words out, jabbing a finger towards his face. “This thing I call a _face_! It’s a pretty damned _thing_! Yeah. Yeah – yeah – _this_!” He rumbles, under sarcastic guffaws. “And, granted, it’s not as pretty as yours, Baker, – but it’s _mine_! And I’m not gonna have my stellar career to fall back on after a while to pick up the ladies, so I’m gonna need it. Yeah! Maybe you can’t see all the pretty under all this facial hair – but women _happen_ to like it.” He draws a circle around his face and reiterates. “ _My. Face!”_ He roars. He grips his fist and punches it in the air, stomping his foot with each word, growled out in cursory huffs. _“And. I. Happen. To. Like. It!”_

He puffs and looks at her placid face. Something tips for her after he’s done with all his venting. He watches the corners of her mouth twitch and dimples appear. Her mouth is set in a thin line, like she’s amused. He’s still livid, he kicks the dirt in frustration, before shoving his mask on and looks around for his mitt. He grunts when he fishes it off the ground, dusting it off against his thigh. The whole stadium is virtually silent – it’s remarkable. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply before turning away.

(It eventually becomes the most watched video with the words: ‘Mike Lawson’ and ‘Hissy Fit’ in the same line. Then, it becomes the most watched songified autotuned video, after which it becomes the most watched _dubsmash_ with even celebrities imitating him, and finally his supposedly pretty face gets trapped in gifs of slow motion with two recurring themes, the one with all the fist swaying and finger jabbing towards himself with _My face_ and the other with his stomping and yelling motions with _I happen to like it._ )

“Hey!” She calls out softly, stalling him when he makes to return to the home plate.

He’s the only player within earshot. The rest of his team are huddled away at a safe distance because they clearly don't wanna get their heads bitten off. 

She keeps the glove over her mouth, keeping those pretty lips covered and gives it back to him. “I like it, too.”

He goes from all out furious to completely overcome with adoration in like thirty seconds. 

The whole world watches while she covers her mouth with the glove, and then he stalks off. Few notice the small lookback at her gives her. 

There in front of thirty thousand people, no one sees the idiotic grin he gives her from behind the cage of his mask.

(And _that_ is how Mike Lawson ends up a meme for all posterity.)

 

-2-

 

When he met Rachel, he was barely twenty-four, a freshman with the Padres while she was a young, fresh-out-of-college, reporter working for a local news channel. He’d never seen a girl sports reporter that looked like her - smart and gorgeous and funny at the same time. She was always the smarter than them both. Heck! She even had the college degree to show for it. She’s the one who labelled him a narcissist ironically it was she who saw right through his self-trumpeting routine. He never had to hide himself from her. They lived with this open bridge between them (or so he thought until he walked in on _them_ ). She was the first ‘person’ in his life and he had hoped for her to be the last, but life had its own plans.

(“I never loved anyone, the way I loved her.” He would confide in Ginny, later.)

Rachel was all about the story behind the story, it’s what made her so popular and so good at her job. She would go to great lengths to get anecdotes and personal experiences from unknown, obscure people who knew professional athletes on a personal level. Mike remembers the one time just after they got married, that she flew all the way to Yukon, to get a story on a new NFL recruit and got stuck there for seven days in a nasty storm. ( The early days of cell phones – he couldn’t get in touch with her. He’d never been more worried about anything his whole life. )

The _one_ problem with the way Rachel worked - she never asked permission before dragging personal information into the spotlight.

At the peak of the whole _Ginnsanity_ storm, when Baker had started settling into their team, Rachel popped up with a one-episode documentary on Baker’s origins – particularly her father’s death. There were no negative connotations -  if anything, it made Baker more admirable. Mike was glued to the sight of his ex-wife on TV for the first time in months since their very expensive divorce had been finalized. The piece went about like a wildfire – became the most talked about episode of her show. He heard she won an award later for the production.

He knew Baker’s father had died earlier in an accident – but he’d always assumed the man was alone. He had never known that Ginny was in the car until then and he never knew it was the night that the she crossed paths with the Padres scout.

 _“The night destiny called …”_ Rachel had said, in that deceptively empathic tone that was her usual Rachel style. “ _Young Ginny sat on the side of the rode, hugging herself….watching her father’s body being taken away. His little girl pitching in a major league game, in front of thousands – the one day he had been waiting for his entire life – a tragic irony that he would never live to see it.”_

He was stunned and overwhelmed. He wasn’t sure if it was that Rachel hit all the right emotional chords or if it was because it was about Baker.

And, if that wasn’t big enough of a Charlie Foxtrot, the whole thing was done without Baker’s consent.

He’d assumed otherwise, until Amelia showed up at his hotel in a feisty mood ready for angry-sex. Apparently, Ginny eighty-sixed her as her agent that morning. “I don’t understand why she got so mad.” Amelia would tell him as she pushed by unbuttoning her blouse.  “I mean, it was a good piece. They want more of her.”

Mike didn’t entertain her that night (he suspects maybe that’s when Amelia’s suspicions on his feelings for Ginny rose). He blew her off so he could go and talk to Baker. Mike found himself walking towards Baker’s one-room serviced apartment, unsure of what he should say. He nodded at her guards and rapped on the door softly before calling out to her. She didn’t answer the door. So he let her be.

Right up until he sees her the next day, which sucks because they’re playing against the Mets.

He knows that she’s freaking out. He can tell from the way she drags her feet as she’s called up to the mound that her head’s not in the game.

He knows things about her now. Partly, because he’s inadvertently taken on a mentor’s role in her life and partly because he’s always right there, sixty feet six inches away from her, tuning to her gameplay. The rapport they have already becoming a thing of legend.

He asks for a timeout, just before she gears up to pitch.

“Talk to me.” He says, still walking up to her.

“What?” She shrugs, acting all gutsy. “I haven’t screwed up anything yet, Mike.”

He really doesn’t have much time for a verbal cuddle, so he steps forward. She’s chewing the inside of her mouth – the way she does when she’s worked up and edgy.

“Baker – you need to let it out, whatever it is.” He says.

“I’m fine.” She asserts.

“Here hold this.” He hands her his mitt. She complies, and waits patiently as he reaches for the small pack of gum in his pocket.

“I’m not just your captain, Baker.” Mike says, pulling out a piece and partially unwrapping it. “I’m your shrink, I’m your bestie and I’m your priest. Thing is, I don’t have all the time in the world to be that -right here” He nods his head in the direction of the umpire, who’s getting restless. “So, you need to be quick.”

“I know you’re trying to help but – I don’t owe you any life stories.” She says, sheepishly.

“No, you don’t.” He agrees. “Here, chew the gum.” He orders. “It’ll keep your emotions in check.”

He hands her the gum. She shakes her head.

He sighs and looks at her sympathetically. “You look like you need bourbon.” He says. “And all I got is gum, Baker. So take the gum.”

When he gives her his, ‘don’t you dare cross me, rookie’ face, she takes it, quietly, returning his mitt to him with the other hand.

The umpire starts making urgent gestures at them.

“Okay, here’s what I got.” He claps his hands and huffs, pensively. “You’re _not_ the first player to get their personal grief dragged out and displayed for all and sundry, but you _are_ the first female played in _major league_ baseball, who’s just had her personal grief displayed for all and sundry. If you fall apart right now, it’ll make you look weak. And I can’t have you being weak out here. It’s not good for _my_ game.”

“I’m not a child, Mike.” She protests, shaking her head, dragging her cleat across the dirt.

“Sure you’re not.” He shrugs her statement off. He pauses and then speaks again. “I’d like to give you all the time you need to be all stoic about it. Right here. You don’t have to tell me a thing, if you want. We’ll just stand here with our imaginary bourbon in front of this whole crowd, till we’re imaginary pissfaced drunk and not say a damned word. I’m game to do that right here, right now on this diamond. But you see, Baker, _that_ guy -” He points to the umpire, shaking his head at her “He doesn’t have the time. And he thinks this is his field. So right, now – be a good girl, chew the gum and give me the short version.”

“It was my fault.” She says, softly. “The accident.”

Now _that_ , he did not expect.

“Mike!” The umpire calls out, getting ready to chastise him.

He squeezes his fingers towards the umpire asking for a few more minutes. She’s looking down at the gum. She nods and then puts it in her mouth.

“I distracted him.” She says, starting to chew slowly. “In the car.” He finds it admirable that she speaks with an even tone. “I was just so excited.” She says, looking down at her feet.  “Pop never showed it, but I knew he was happy too.  I just wanted to see that look on his face, so I distracted him. It was at night and we were both so tired – and – he didn’t see the other car…”

She looks at him. He sees the tears glistening in her eyes that won’t ever fall off, because Baker’s a real trooper. Mike feels his heart break for her.

“He’d have been here –“ She points to the stands. “He’d be sitting somewhere there, if it weren’t for me.”

He watches her exhale and her shoulders relax. She looks up at the sky and lets out a long sigh. “I distracted him.”

Mike’s a little flummoxed, which sucks, because the way that umpire looks at him, he’s got no space for flummoxing.

He chews his gum with a fierce urgency struggling to find words. He finally nods pensively and speaks. “I could probably tell you that’s _way_ too big a burden for you to be carrying around. You were just a kid and that you were allowed to be a kid. That, maybe - yeah - you distracted him – but it was still an accident. That, I’m sorry about your dad, but I’m glad you made it out, because I would never have had the pleasure of meeting this ballsy rookie who’s got the thickest skin and the truest heart I’ve ever seen. I would tell you –“ He breaks off to catch his breath.

Her lip is quivering but he knows she won’t fall apart. A legitimate tough-as-nails trooper.

“I would tell you…” He says, gently. “That your father would be proud of you. I’d tell you that - because _I’m_ proud of you – and heck! Ginny, I haven’t even known you that long." He gives her a wan smile. "Look around Baker – you’ve made it. You’re here. You’ve arrived!" Her face begins to iron up now. He can see a change in her eyes. It's always what he admires about her, how she revs up after she's thrown down. "But I won’t.” He adds. “Because y’know…” He jabs a thumb towards the umpire and makes a face. “…that guy. So right – now – I gotta go. But, we’ll talk later. Right now - ”

She takes a deep breath and claps her ball in her glove and nods at him. “Right now, we win.” She says, coolly.

“Damn straight.” He nods at her, smirking at her as he walks backwards.

When the umpire glares at him, Mike makes an innocent face and then he turns around and winks at Baker.

He thinks she looks adorable, standing there, shaking her head at him with a smile emerging at the corners of her mouth, chewing gum like a pro.

They have a great game. A lot of reporters want to know what they discussed on the mound that she delivered such a great performance. She even forgives Amelia and re-hires her.

(Later, he literally lends her his shoulder.  He gathers her in his arms and lets her ruin the sleeve of his favourite shirt with tears and snot.  She just weeps and weeps till her face is all puffy while he aches for her in helplessness.

Before she slips off into a tired, exhausted slumber, right there on his shoulder, she sniffles and mumbles, “Nice speech, by the way.”

Mike smiles into her hair.

A real trooper - his Ginny Baker.)

 

-3-

 

So they fuck. A lot.

Like - insane amounts of fucking.

They spend two full days holed up in his apartment doing all sorts of nasty things like the world was about to end and they had this one chance. So, it’s kind of hard for him to shake the image of her glorious, naked body riding him. Or the visual of her on her knees, pouty lips and beautifully shaped hand wrapped around his cock.

She’s better at being totally professional about it. Doesn’t give anyone a hint about how things have changed between them. Her curt nods and smiles are so cool and collected, no one would guess that she had her palms flattened up on his headboard, moaning and writhing, sitting on his face, way earlier that morning. 

“What’s up?” She asks him, when he jogs up to her. “You wanna do something different?”

He’s ninety nine percent sure, she means the pitches.

“Yeah I do.” He says, looking around the stadium, casually. “We haven’t done the standing wheelbarrow yet.”

She does a double take. “Say what?”

“Y’know?” He says, blandly. “It’s like one we did the other night – remember? You were kinda angled in downward dog and I had your legs …only I was sitting for that one. We should do the standing version.”

She’s staring mortified at him for a few seconds and then purses her mouth, stifling her amused laugh. Her cheeks turn all ruddy and that’s he wants – to see her blushing. It’s the cutest thing, how she goes pink everywhere when she’s embarrassed –

\- _everywhere_.

“Is that all you came here to tell me?” She says, bracing her waist with one hand and, fidgeting with the ball in the other, her shoulders shaking with laughter.

“Yeah – this is a really slow game.” He mutters. “I was getting _really_ bored down there. I swear to you, I almost nodded off, right there watching Khal Drogo waddle down.” He points to the oversized batter with dreadlocks at second base.

“Yeah, I know, right?” She agrees. “I mean, it’s like they’re not even trying.”

He sighs and looks with boredom at the insipid-looking batter who’s stepped up.  “And look at that guy!” He ribs. “He looks the zombie apocalypse came early and he was too ugly to get bitten.”

“Now, that’s just plain mean, Mike.” She chides, stifling her laughter.

“Yeah I know…” He says, quickly and throws her a suggestive look. “Whaddya say we get finish this quick so, we can do – _stuff,_  later.”

“Are you sure your knees can handle a standing wheelbarrow, Gran’pa?” She says, with a straight face.

Mike snaps his head to her, floored by her sass. She wiggles her eyebrows and narrows her eyes at him. “Let’s you and me find out.” He says, grinning at her. He pats her lower back – a sort of politically correct compromise on the ass-slap for public viewing they’d come to - way back when.

“Yeah, sure.” She adds, in a slinky, sexy tone ducking her head into her mitt. “Maybe, I’ll let you spank me.”

Mike’s super grateful for the invention of the athletic cup or all of Petco would probably be getting an education, right then.

 

-4-

 

The very last game of his active career is emotional for everyone. (Ginny bawled like a baby all of the night prior. It was really distracting because he was trying to get her come with his fingers.)  

Mike feels a deep sense of satisfaction at the last inning. He’s grateful – he got to do the one thing he was _good_ at, professionally. The _one_ thing he loved - because he _knows_ \- not many people get a chance to say that.  He’s grateful for the two young energetic female recruits sitting in the dugout, watching eagerly. He’s grateful to have seen that change in his lifetime.

He’s more grateful for the presence of the rather lovely player, standing there at the pitch, waiting on him. His older, seasoned, cool as a cucumber, confident, tough-as-nails trooper.

_The greatest game ever played._

He walks up to the mound after the last ball is played.  He takes off his face mask and mitt as he walks up to her. The crowd has erupted into a tandem cheer of his name.

“Don’t say a word or I’ll start crying.” She croaks, as she pulls off her cap.

Mike would have kissed her right there, if it hadn’t been for their mutual decision to go public with their relationship after six months of his retirement. She’s still got a long promising future ahead and he wants to be part of it - the right way.

Mike doesn’t hesitate to embrace her in a hug, in front of San Diego - and the world behind the cameras. Cheers erupt in adulation of a commendable partnership between a legendary pitcher and a legendary catcher.

But, Mike’s not thinking of all that. He’s not a poetic guy.

“Marry me, Ginny.” He whispers in her ear, as he hugs her tight.

She sobs into his shoulder and then makes him happy as hell. “Yes.” She says.

 

-5-

 

They get married in the Petco park a year later, right there on that mound. It’s a simple sweet ceremony, planned in utmost secrecy, performed in the middle of the night, with only the people they held dearest as invitees.

Mike chooses to walk down, right up, from his old positon in the catcher's box, all the way to the pitcher’s mound; Blip, his best man by his side.

Ginny’s waiting for him at the mound, wearing a simple beautiful white dress, flanked by her mother and brother.

He’s not making a statement about gender roles or anything.

He just wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for any baseball faux pas.  
> Reviews are inspiration!


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